


Make Me Well

by Kaname



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Doesn't That Just Really Grind Harry's Gears, Basically, Because What's Wrong with Malfoy, Dammit Malfoy, Draco Malfoy Isn't Up to Anything™, F/F, F/M, Forgiveness, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Inter-House Bonding, M/M, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, Why Won't Malfoy Insult Him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-03-02 01:32:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13307583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaname/pseuds/Kaname
Summary: It wasn't that Draco Malfoy was "up to something" that bothered Harry.It's that he wasn't.





	1. Prologue: Black Wax

“Harry, you need to throw these out.”

Ron dangled a pink, perfumed card in front of Harry, wrinkling his nose. “You’ve got thousands of these stupid buggers and the room is starting to smell like _girl._ ”

Harry huffed, picking absently at a Chocolate Frog box he’d bought for sentiment’s sake on the Express. It had been two weeks, and he’d yet to open it. To be honest, he was afraid he may find his own blinking likeness on the card inside. “It feels wrong to throw out ‘thank you’ cards, Ron.”

Ron flattened his hair and fixed the sleeves of his wrinkled robes. He had Charms, which Harry resolutely refused to go to today, but which Ron dare not skip, lest he face the terrifying wrath of his well-meaning girlfriend. “These aren’t thank you cards, they’re _propositions._ Three of these explicitly offer to “rock your world,” which I don’t fully understand, but I really don’t want to anyway, mate.”

“Ron, ’m not…”

“Wait, look at this one!" Ron plucked a slender parcel from the perfumed stack. "It’s envelope is pretty nice, maybe it’s the Minister or something.”

Ron passed Harry a smooth, silver envelope. It was unassumingly elegant, thin, with a black wax seal. Harry slid his fingers beneath the seal, a smooth piece of parchment fluttering out onto his lap.

 _Thank you,_ it read in elegant, narrow cursive.

Ron sniffed. “That’s it?

Harry flipped the card over, then looked back up. “Yeah, that’s it. It’s still nice, Ron.”

“It’s not even signed. Come _on,_ it’s not that hard.” Ron made for the door, looking to Harry. “You sure you don’t want to go today, mate? Hermione will give you her notes, I'm sure, but...” He shrugged. "She's definitely gonna whinge about it."

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna sneak down to the kitchens for some soup, I’m not feeling well.” Harry didn’t mention he hadn’t slept. Ron always knew. It was hard not to when Harry had spent the entire night screaming. “I’ll see you in Potions.”  


⚡

_Two Weeks Earlier_

 

Everything felt wrong.

Sure, things had never really quite felt bloody _right_ in the first place — it was hard for them to when you’d spent your entire adolescence fighting a mad bloke with a pet snake and no nose — but they’d at least felt...well, _normal._ Or what passed for it.

Harry found that the Hogwarts Express was...wrong, now. It was still loud, and still boisterous, and still smelled like socks and sweets, but it was also melancholy and segregated and...well.

You know.

"It was mad of the Slytherins to come back,” Ron was saying through a mouthful of something Harry hadn’t even noticed him buying. Hermione swatted him on the arm, and he shot her a look. “What? It is! Or have you forgotten half their bloody lot sold at least one of us out to a madman?”

Harry sighed and peered through the crack in the door of their cabin. “Ron’s not wrong, but…” He eyed the cabin across the way, which he knew housed Zabini, Parkinson, Bulstrode and Malfoy. He’d yet to see Nott, though he’d put a couple knuts down that he’d weaseled his way into a Ravenclaw cabin. “They’re being awfully quiet. I don’t think they want to be here, either.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Well none of us _want_ to be here. McGonagall just went loony with power and won’t administer the NEWTs without ‘proper Ministerial procedure.’” His voice went shrill and pointed at the end, and Hermione looked halfway to swatting him again before she schooled her expression into one of only vague annoyance and sighed.

“The two of you know we aren’t ready for NEWTs, and we can’t coast on goodwill forever.” She sniffed and dabbed her nose with a handkerchief. Her mum had given her a cold. Hermione didn't seem to mind, as long as she had a mum to get a cold from again. “We need to be prepared to actually make something of ourselves in wizarding society. Years of blind heroism does not a career make.”

“We bloody well _can_ coast…” Ron muttered, but Harry just snorted and picked at the sleeve of his robes.

“Either way,” Harry said softly, his eyes still locked on the Slytherins’ door. If he focused hard enough, he thought he could hear a high, rasping drawl that reminded him uncomfortably of Draco Malfoy’s posh accent.

He made eye contact with Hermione, and what he saw in her eyes he wasn’t sure he’d ever understand.  


⚡  


The kitchens still made Harry a little uncomfortable, even now. He found that food preparation held little magic for a boy who’d spent most of his life enslaved beside a Muggle stove. Even if most of Hogwarts' preparation was bewitched, and literally done by elves.

Still, most meals he preferred the distant memories that haunted him here to the looming whispers that followed him to the Great Hall.

If only by a bit.

Regardless, the empty corridors at Hogwarts were something he could handle much more aptly than the droning monotony of a Charms class, and he was glad he’d forgone the lecture this morning. Most of the curriculum for the eighth years was considered by professors to be an “optional review” — if only technically — so attendance was not strictly enforced, only encouraged. A fact that Harry planned to take full advantage of, especially since Hermione took impeccable notes.

He did regret it a bit, though. The new eighth year quarters were an amalgamation of each of the houses, with a hastily prepared tower on Hogwarts’ less battered side the site of their inter-house dormitories. As such, he hadn’t had a lot of time with his mates lately, especially since Hermione and Ron spent most of their free time snogging, and the rest of the Gryffindors were sequestered away in his old common room.

When he missed class, he missed time with his friends.

Time that he, usually, could not get back.

He was grateful, at least, that they’d been allowed to pick their roommates. Otherwise, he may literally never see Ron again.

“Master Draco must eat something,” he heard ring softly through the corridor, and Harry felt himself come to an abrupt stop, his trainers squeaking in protest at the sudden end to his footfall. He instinctively sidled up against the wall, still in earshot but out of sight. “Master Draco hasn’t eaten since yesterday.”

Malfoy? Well, the accent he heard could’ve been no one else’s. “I’m fine, Cordelia, really, just — just my tea, please. That’s all I wanted to ask for.”

“Master Draco must eat! He must! He is too thin!” The reedy voice of the elf was jarringly concerned, even from Harry’s considerable distance. “He has not been eating well, Cordelia must not have been making the right food!”

“Cordelia, please — “ Malfoy sounded — tired? Exasperated? Harry was searching for the contempt in his tone, but he could find none. “You’ve done quite alright. Just, the _tea._ _”_ He said this desperately. “If you insist on it, I’ll take a few biscuits. If I don’t eat them Pansy certainly will.”

“Yes, yes, yes, the tea, Cordelia will get the tea!” Harry was only a few feet away now, having crept slowly toward the kitchens, his eyes pinned to Malfoy. He was leaning up against the corridor wall opposite him, a sheet of blonde hair obscuring his face. He wasn’t in his robes, just a soft grey jumper and slim black slacks.

Odd.

Malfoy was still as stone, except for his hands, which wrung his jumper desperately for several moments before Cordelia appeared with a silver tea set and a small tin of shortbread.

“Cordelia will make sure the tea is ready when Master Draco arrives tomorrow! She is sorry!” Malfoy charmed the platter to levitate, gave a curt nod, and abruptly turned to head back towards the tower, meeting Harry’s eyes.

The grey that Harry saw was utterly flat. Empty.

This wasn’t Malfoy.

Malfoy was...contemptible, sure. Garish, and rude, and a bigoted prick. But Malfoy was always _alive,_ spirited, even, in his anguish and anger. There was always something _there,_ in those eyes.

This Malfoy just looked...gone.

Malfoy said nothing, his gaze sweeping back to the corridor in front of him as he levitated his tea back to the eighth year quarters silently. Harry gawped after him.

“You’re not going to insult me for spying on you?” Harry found himself saying, quite against his own will, staring after Malfoy incredulously. He saw Malfoy’s shoulders sag, and when he turned to meet Harry’s eyes, that damned curtain of hair made his face difficult to discern. Malfoy brushed it away cautiously.

“What you do is none of my business, Potter,” he said, blinking. Then, without another word, he turned the corner and vanished.  


⚡  


“There’s something wrong with Malfoy,” Harry said, stuffing his mouth with a full slice of roast beef and washing it down with pumpkin juice. The three of them were sat at the Gryffindor table, nearest the end, where Harry could make an easy escape if the fanish hoard descended. He hated the Great Hall, but he needed to tell someone about Malfoy, and he had a hunch that if he didn't find Ron and Hermione now, he wouldn't  _want_ to find them later.

There’d been the barest of attempts at the start of the term to have an “eighth year” table, but all of the students had quickly migrated back to their individual houses, and McGonagall had no choice but to acknowledge the futility of forcing the issue. 

“There’s a lot wrong with Malfoy, Harry, you’re going to have to be a lot more specific,” Ron sniped. Then he glanced up and furrowed his brow. “Wait, are you legitimately worried about that prat? He’s _Malfoy,_ he’s probably snivelling about the fact that he wound up looking the fool in the end. Let him be miserable, he’s a _Death Eater,_ for fuck sakes.”

“Ron!” Hermione snapped, discretely motioning to a cohort of younger Gryffindor students in the middle of the table who’d all suddenly stiffened. “Be _quieter,_ don’t drag that stuff up at dinner.”

Ron absently buttered a croissant. “They’ve heard it all, anyway, the War isn’t some big secret ‘round here, ‘Mione.”

She sighed. “Just. Humor me, please?”

Ron gave her a tender look from beneath his lashes. Harry fought the urge to dry heave.  “Yeah, yeah. Right, then. What’s wrong with Malfoy, Harry?”

Right. “I saw him at the kitchens today.” Harry lowered his voice, just enough so that only Hermione and Ron could hear him. “He was being _polite_ to the house elf, for bloody one,” Hermione suddenly looked up, but whatever she was about to say, she apparently thought better of. She motioned for him to continue.

“The elf kept whinging at him for not eating, and he just kept asking for his tea. Then, when he caught me spying on him, he just walked by, and said some nonsense about how what I did was ‘none of his business.’” Harry took another sip of pumpkin juice. Even Ron was watching with interest now. “Since when does Malfoy think what I'm doing is 'none of his business?' I’m telling you, something's wrong. He wasn’t himself.”

Hermione pushed a carrot around her plate with her fork, holding her lip between her teeth like she was physically holding something in. “You know, he could just be feeling badly about the War.” She said, finally meeting his eyes. “It changed all of us, Harry. Maybe Malfoy’s feeling remorseful. He should be.”

“Un-bloody-likely,” Ron said. “Look, mate, that’s weird, I’ll give you that. But don’t get wrapped up in Malfoy again. It’s not worth it. He's not up to anything, relish in it for once.”

Harry glanced across the Hall, to Malfoy’s empty seat.

“Yeah,” he said softly. His voice was unconvincing, even to his own ears. “You’re probably right.”

But Malfoy...it didn't just seem like Malfoy wasn't up to anything nefarious, it seemed like he wasn't up to anything at  _all._ Not plotting, not eating, not  _anything._

And something about that just...

Well.

It wouldn't be like Harry to just let something like that go, would it?

Malfoy  _wasn't_ up to something.

And Harry was going to get to the bottom of why.


	2. Mad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually losing my mind and instead of writing grant proposals, I'm writing this drivel. Help me.
> 
> Thank you all immensely for the love and support (this incredibly rapid update is entirely your fault). I apologize for minor grammatical errors here and there, I whipped this out and only proofread once or twice because my knee is absolutely killing me.

It wasn’t that Harry was stalking Malfoy.

Really, he wasn’t. He’d just...happened to encounter him significantly more, lately. Besides, Malfoy and Zabini roomed just down the hall from him and Ron — they were bound to cross paths occasionally. It wasn’t his fault that they shared a common room. And a bathroom. And a number of classes. Which he was suddenly very keen to attend.

“You’ve been coming to class quite a lot lately,” Hermione was saying, with a faint smile, to him one afternoon before Potions. “I’m glad to see you’re taking the NEWTs seriously, Harry.”

Ron smirked, giving Harry the side-eye while he toyed with the ends of Hermione’s voluminous hair.

They’d been doing that quite a lot, actually. Subtle exchanges of contact that they’d never done during the War. It made Harry a tad nauseous, true, but he was mostly happy for them — happy that the horror and terror had subsided long enough that the niceties of a relationship were suddenly in the realm of possibility. They were his best mates, after all.

“I don’t think he’s coming to class to learn, ‘Mione.”

“What do you — ” She turned and caught Harry’s eye, just as he’d noted Malfoy entering the room. He looked gaunt. Slender and hollow, with his cropped hair and loose bangs carelessly arranged around his sallow features. At least he was wearing his robes today, hiding all the sharp angles that made him look so much more...fragile. Harry ripped his gaze away, but not soon enough, apparently. “Oh, Harry...I thought we went over this,” Hermione said, a bit sadly.

Ron shrugged. “Blimey, if he wants to follow the Ferret, that’s his prerogative. Merlin knows we can’t stop him. Never could. Just don’t get me caught up in it this time. Least you and Gin aren’t together anymore, she’d be mental if she saw you obsessing over Malfoy again.”

“Ron, don’t bring up Ginny,” Hermione whispered.

“Oi, Harry doesn’t care, do ya?”

Harry blinked. Ginny? Merlin, they’d been over for months. It wasn’t even a break-up, so much as a slow fizzling out until — one day — they’d looked at each other over the Weasleys’ crowded dinner table and realized they just weren’t in love anymore.

It’d actually been a relief, if he was honest.

“No,” he said, distractedly, his eyes shifting back over to Malfoy as he slowly arranged his quills, parchment, and ink well on the table. “I don’t mind, actually. Ginny and I are on good terms.”

“See?”

“Yes, Ron, but you shouldn’t just assume — Harry?”

Harry whipped his head back towards his friends, just as Zabini whispered something to Malfoy and glanced his direction. “It’s fine, Hermione, really.” He cleared his throat and began taking out his own ratty parchment. He really shouldn't keep it loose in his bag. He could feel Hermione’s eyes boring into the side of his head. “What's today’s lesson on, again?”

“We’re reviewing the Draught of Living Death. Honestly, Harry,” Hermione sighed, gently nudging her notes towards him. “We went through the theory last lesson. This is the lesson we brew. We have double Potions today."

“Shite, I forgot,” he whispered, just in time for Slughorn to bustle into the room, his wispy grey hair still faintly visible just beneath his ears.

“Good afternoon, everyone! Hello, hello! Please partner up and gather your ingredients. And don’t forget — we’re looking for lilac, then _clear!_ Today is a double Potions lesson. As you well know, the draught is very difficult to brew in under an hour.…”

He looked to Ron and Hermione, and Ron quirked a brow in challenge. “Don’t look at me, mate. This is some advanced shite, you’d be insane to think I’m not stealing Hermione for this.”

“Bugger.” He glanced behind him, where Neville had already paired with Hannah, and the Ravenclaws were looking at him like they’d rather sing karaoke with a Mandrake than partner with him for a potion this difficult. “Right. Well.”

“Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter. As you are the only two without partners, please join one another and collect your materials!”

Harry’s breath caught, and Ron barked out a laugh. Harry glared. Ron smirked. “ _What?_ It’ll be pretty easy to spy on him if you’re bloody _partners_ , mate. _Enjoy._ ”

Harry bundled up his things, flipped Ron the finger, and shuffled over to Malfoy’s table. He was greeted with a disinterested look and a piece of parchment laid neatly out on the edge of the table. A list of ingredients was scrawled down the center in narrow cursive.

 _☙ Water_  
_☙ Powdered root of asphodel_  
_☙ Infusion of Wormwood_  
_☙ Valerian root_  
_☙ Sopophorous beans_ _  
☙ Sloth brain_

“Get the ingredients, Potter, I’m reviewing how we’re to prepare the Valerian root.”

Harry rolled his eyes, setting his things on edge of the table. “Aren’t you afraid that I’m too tits at Potions to even get the right materials?”

Malfoy gave him a truly half-hearted attempt at a glare. “Surely even you can read labels, you blubbering oaf.”

“If that’s a risk you’re willing to take.”

Malfoy sighed. “Potter, for Circe’s sake, just get the _bloody ingredients._ Unless you’re prepared to lie your way to another perfect brew, I fully intend to pass my NEWTs with or without your help.”

“If you didn’t need my help, you’d get the ingredients yourself.”

Malfoy’s head suddenly snapped up, the edges of his white teeth just barely bared. For a split second, Harry thought he could see the remnants of the old Malfoy dredged up in that snarl. His grey eyes were flashing with something that made Harry’s pulse race. An invitation for a fight, a duel, _something —_  and everything felt normal again, for a tantalizing moment. Everything felt real. “POTTER!”

“Gentlemen,” Slughorn said, Harry jumping a fraction of an inch at the sudden intrusion. Malfoy’s face immediately collapsed back into a bland, smooth mockery of what it had been just a moment before. “Is there a problem?”

Malfoy stood, brushed his robes down, and plucked the list from Harry’s frozen hand. “Not at all, Professor,” he said smoothly. His tone was flat and cold. “I was just going to get the ingredients, actually.”

Slughorn’s resulting smile wasn’t nearly as satisfying as Malfoy’s snarl had been. “Good, boys. Excellent.”

 

⚡

 

Okay, so Harry _may_ have been stalking Malfoy.

He wouldn’t admit it. Out loud, at least. But it was hard for him to deny to himself, when he’d spent the better part of the evening working on twelve inches of Arithmancy. It wasn’t even due until a fortnight from now, but Harry needed an excuse to hang out with Hermione, Neville and Padma in the common room so he could try to figure out where Malfoy had been swanning off to all evening. So...here he was.

It was quiet tonight. All of the “stragglers” had been summarily shooed back to Dean’s room to imbibe and play Exploding Snap when it became clear that the library was closing early, almost certainly to deal with an unfortunate incident among a handful of second years. A miscast hex had scorched a number of furnishings, and Pince was inconsolably angry.

“Why did I take Arithmancy at all,” he muttered, scratching out a particularly poorly constructed chart of numbers. Blimey, he was going to have to rewrite this is he wanted any hope of passing.

“An understanding of the fundamental theories that contribute to curse-breaking will be helpful for your Auror training, Harry,” Hermione whispered, pointing to a row of numbers on his new chart with the end of her quill. “Those are wrong. Anyway, understanding the principles underlying the work of your peers in the Ministry will be very helpful if you ever want to make Head Auror.” Harry re-wrote a “4” in to his chart, and without skipping a beat, Hermione shook her head and corrected it to a “3.”

“The Auror Department collaborates frequently with both the Office for the Removal of Curses, Jinxes, and Hexes and the curse-breakers at St. Mungos.” She smiled at him. “I think it’s wonderful that you’re doing coursework beyond just Defence.”

He glanced up at Padma and Neville, who were also quietly whispering and gesturing to their parchment. At least he wasn’t disturbing them. “I wish I were as inspired to do good as you are, Hermione. I think I just sort of pointed at NEWTs until McGonagall seemed satisfied.”

“Oh Harry, you _are_ wonderful. I know I tease you and Ron, and...well, it pains me to say it, but learning isn’t _only_ books, you know.” She trained her big eyes on him. “You learn through doing, and that’s okay, too. You’ll make a wonderful Auror.”

Harry flushed. “I, uh, well, thanks.”

Hermione didn’t have a chance to respond before the portrait covering the door to the eighth year dormitories shifted aside to a mumbled " _Venia Data_ ” and Malfoy swept in in a heavy woolen cloak. The green fabric was pinned at the collar by a large, jeweled button.

“Excuse me,” Harry mumbled, pushing his Arithmancy onto the sofa and jogging after Malfoy. He was either quieter than expected, or Malfoy was particularly distracted, because when Harry called out to him he could’ve sworn he saw Malfoy jump.

“What?” Came a thin, weary voice. When Harry gave no answer, Malfoy turned in the corridor to face him, his hand resting on the handle of his dormitory door. “What is it, Potter? I’d quite like to go to sleep sometime this evening.”

“Where were you? Were you outside?” He asked, before he could think it through. He winced at how desperate and intrusive it sounded.

“No, Potter, I was in the dungeons with the other Slytherins, playing that wretched Muggle game with the serpents and the ladders. Of course I was outside. Why that’s any of you business, I haven’t the foggiest.” Malfoy gave a long-suffering sigh. “Was that all?”

“Just, er — ” Harry scratched his neck. Oh Merlin, he hadn’t thought this through at all. He should’ve done that instead of his Arithmancy. “Has anyone been bothering you? You’ve not come to dinner in awhile.”

Something in Malfoy’s eyes flashed hot and angry, but as quickly as it came, it was squashed and a vague, put-upon annoyance took its place. “Potter, I don’t need a nanny. I’m certain I can handle _eating._ ”

Harry scoffed. “Obviously not. You’ve gotten so _thin_ you could be used to stir a cauldron.”

Malfoy stiffened, turning back to his door. “Your disapproval is duly noted and also ignored. Goodnight, Potter.”

“Wait, Malfoy, I didn’t mean — "

Malfoy swept into his dormitory and slammed the door. Harry gawped after him, then ran a hand through his hair, thwoping his head lightly on the stone of the corridor.

Blimey, he sucked arse at this.

“You’re going to have to do better than that.”

He whirled around and spotted Pansy bloody Parkinson leaning up against the wall opposite him. She wore a revealing black top v-neck with an alarmingly average pair of dark wash denim trousers. He curled his lip. “Oh, that could’ve gone better, y’think?”

Parkinson bit back a bark of laughter. “Cute, Potter. Yes, that could have gone better.” She dipped her head, the edges of her sharp bob brushing her shoulders while she kicked absently at the floor. “He isn’t doing alright, y’know.”

Harry’s head snapped up. He felt something deep and strange in his gut fall like the floor’d been kicked out from under it. “Why are you telling me this?”

She shrugged. “Can’t be arsed to figure out why, really. Maybe because nothing else has worked since he disappeared over the summer hols, and I’m out of ideas.” She picked nonchalantly at one of her well-manicured thumb nails, but Harry could see her shoulders tense.

“Maybe because Draco’s always been a bit mad about getting your attention. Maybe because I’d rather not see him mope himself to an early grave. Regardless,” she looked up at him, and for the first time, it really _hit him_ that he was having a cordial conversation with _Pansy Parkinson._ Hermione was going to wring his neck. “You saved him from Azkaban, and I’m thinking, if you’re up to it, you might also help me save him from himself.”

 

⚡

 

“This was the best we could do?”

Blaise Zabini shook a wind-blown piece of dandelion fuzz from his sleeve, pursing his lips. “Honestly, Pans, did it have to be _outside?_ ”

Parkinson scowled at him. “Tell me, Blaise, would you prefer to plot with Potter where we can be _discovered?”_

“Fair.”

“You two do understand that I’m right here,” Harry mumbled, sniffing and fixing his red and gold scarf.

Parkinson gave him a sharp smile. “Oh, Potter, I’m well aware that you’re here. I haven’t the faintest what gave you the idea that I give a rat’s arse about sparing your feelings, however.”

“Right, then,” he huffed. “Can we just get this over with? I’m missing time with Neville and Hermione on a Charms scroll to “conspire,” or whatever you lot call it, with you two.”

Zabini snorted. His cheeks were surprisingly rosy in the biting autumn air. It sometimes took Harry by surprise how _human_ people you hated could be. “Surprisingly studious of you, Potter. I’m pleasantly surprised.”

Parkinson gave him a look. “Oh please, Blaise, he’s only sponging off Granger and Longbottom. Don’t lower your standards. It doesn’t become you.”

“ _Guys,”_ he urged, and Zabini sighed.

“Fine, fine. Pansy, please do explain why you’re forcing me to spend time with a Gryffindor.”

Parkinson undid a small piece of parchment with her white-clad hands, her upturned nose wiggling a little as she settled into her cloak and scarf. “Right. By my accounting, Draco’s only eaten the rough equivalent of a meal a day for the past several weeks.” Her eyes flicked down the parchment. “He’s doing well in his courses, but he takes off on “walks” for two to three hours at a time, and when he does arrive back at the dormitory, goes immediately to sleep and can’t be woken up.”

Harry pinched his temples beneath his glasses. “Parkinson, if you’re trying to tell me that he’s just _depressed_ , I can’t be bothered. I don’t really care if your lot is _sad,_ to be honest. I’ve quite a lot to be sad about myself, you know.”

Pansy’s eyes hardened. “No, Potter, I don’t think he’s  _sad,_ as you’ve so articulately put it.”

She rolled her parchment back up and shrank it before placing it back in her pocket.

“I think he’s dangerously self-medicating and refusing to feel anything at all — and though I’m sure your righteous sense of justice means you “can’t be bothered” about how _depressed_ or _sad_ he is, the fact that you kept him out of Azkaban tells me that you do give a shite about whether he lives or dies.” She pointed an accusing finger at him. “Which is why _you’re_ going to help us.”

Harry took a deep breath, tamping down the rapidly building rage in the hollow of his chest. “How, exactly, can I even _help?_ He hates me, Parkinson. Regardless of whether I want him dead or alive, he doesn’t _care_ what I think. You’re best off getting Goyle to come back if you want someone whose opinion he gives a shite about.”

Zabini’s eyes flashed. “Don’t you fucking talk about — “

“Blaise,” Parkinson snapped. “Focus.” She sighed, the faint pink and gold of the rising sun outlining her head in light that was almost poetic. “Potter, it boils down to this: I want you to antagonize him.”

_“What?”_

Parkinson gave him a shit-eating grin. “Piss him off. Get him going. Taunt and tease him. Nothing below the belt, mind. We don’t need to make him swing for the gallows. But stupid shite. Tell him his hair’s ugly. Question his potion-making. _Goad him._ ”

Zabini let out a full-bellied laugh that made him seem suspiciously human again. “That’s actually quite brilliant.”

“You want me to _piss off Malfoy?”_ Harry struggled for words. Like usual, he went for whatever landed on his tongue first. “You’re his best mates, are you _mad?!_ ”

Parkinson gave him a smug look, and Harry could feel the weight of his entire world shifting. “Potter, believe me when I say this — there is only one thing Draco likes being more than numb.”

Her and Blaise shared a look before she turned on her heel and gestured for Zabini to follow her back to the castle.

She smiled as she turned away and Harry thought he heard Blaise laugh when she called back.

“Mad!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Venia Data" - the password for the tower - translates roughly to "mercy granted" or "mercy has been granted."


	3. Quill

“Ron, stop laughing.”

Ron’s entire face screwed up into an ugly, twisted thing. He went deep scarlett for a few seconds before the loud guffawing that had rung through their dormitory all morning burst from his lips.

Again.

Harry dropped his head forlornly onto the desk.

“ _Harry,”_ Ron wheezed, “How...am I supposed...to stop laughing…” he took a deep breath, then said the rest in what sounded like one long, high-pitched word, “ _When the Slytherins are conspiring with you to piss off Malfoy.”_

“A little sympathy would be nice,” Harry murmured into the grainy wood of his elderly workstation. “I’ve been successfully guilted by the Slytherins into _making Malfoy feel better._ ”

Ron let out a shuddering breath and brought his flat palms down from his mouth like he was trying to calm himself. “Harry, you don’t _have_ to do anything. Parkinson just knows what buttons to push. I’m sure the Ferret’s absolutely fine.”

Harry turned his head to the side, meeting Ron’s eyes. They were an unassuming blue, warm and inviting, entirely unlike Malfoy’s.

If he thought about Malfoy's eyes for too long, he forgot what they looked like when they were alive — instead of the flat and cold grey they were now.

Harry sighed. “Ron, if I believed that, even a little bit, do you think I’d be considering this at all?” His eyes flickered to his quill, balanced on the edge of his desk and teasing a jump to the floor, where it would surely snap in half and scatter about the rug.

Something about its precariousness made the hollow of Harry’s stomach ache with what he could only describe as _familiarity._ Familiarity with _what_ , he didn’t really know.

He didn’t really want to know, if he was honest.

A piece of Ron’s fiery hair fell down across his forehead, caught in Harry’s peripheral vision. “Oh, Harry.” The mirth etched into Ron’s features just moments before had slowly turned sad, the corner of his mouth dipping into a thoughtful frown. “Sometimes you’re too heroic for your own good, mate.”

“So what do you suggest?” Harry said, in lieu of responding, resigned and gnawing on the edge of his lip. “What insult is just rude enough to get a rise, but not rude enough to be cruel?”

“I can’t believe I’m deliberating the merits of a _tepid_ insult in my very own dorm.”

Ron sighed, rifling through the pile of things on his nightstand and shrinking down a quill and bottle of ink before he slipped them into his robe pockets. They were quickly followed by his 5 inches on the properties of some potion ingredient or another.

They had Potions again this afternoon. Harry had finished the assignment so long ago, he’d honestly forgotten what he’d written entirely.

It was an odd feeling, to know how easy school could have been, how straightforward and successful (at least passably, he reckoned) he might have been as a proper student...you know, one with parents, and everything.

It pained him more than the physical scars, sometimes. How smoothly class and friends and _Quidditch_ could have gone if Voldemort hadn’t been so keen on murdering everyone he loved and valued. How smoothly they _were_ going, now.

Bugger.

“You’re not really deliberating very fast,” Harry muttered, shaking the thoughts off like nasty burs.

“Merlin, give me a minute! Everything I’m coming up with is too nasty for your taste, you utter knob.” Ron touched his chin, looking intently at the heavy bureau that housed his slim wardrobe. His face suddenly brightened. “I’ve got it! Insult his robes.”

Harry sat up straighter. “Pardon?”

“Insult his robes, yeah?” Ron gave a crisp nod that was more for himself than Harry. “Malfoy’s royally uptight about his appearance, so it’ll tick him off, but they’re also required by Hogwarts, so it’s only secondarily about him and his choices.”

Harry gawped.

“It’s rude, but it’s not too personal, you know?”

Harry snorted and Ron winced, wrinkling his nose. “I’ve spent entirely too long thinking about Malfoy’s robes, then. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go cast a quick _obliviate_ and be on my way to see my  _beautiful, stunning, perfect girlfriend, whose robes are excellent_ and _incredibly sexy_.”

He heard Hermione laugh from the hallway, where she'd clearly been waiting.

Harry made a point to gag loudly, but he was smiling nonetheless. Ron swept for the door Harry called a breathy “thanks, mate!” before gathering up the required materials for Potions and following soon after.

It was a stroke of luck that Harry’d timed things perfectly to arrive beside Malfoy at the cracked doorway of the Potions room.

But Harry wasn’t above calling upon luck, when he needed to. He took a deep breath and schooled his expression into something casually disdainful, tracing the lines of Malfoy’s robes with his eyes in a way he was almost certain Malfoy would notice.

When Malfoy’s dead-eyed stare refused to budge from its straight path, though, it was Zabini and Harry that shared a meaningful (if uncomfortable) look before Zabini quipped, in a cool drawl, “See something you like, then, Potter?”

Harry snorted derisively. “Yeah, Zabini. I find Malfoy’s wrinkled, unflattering Slytherin robes so _incredibly_ appealing, I just couldn’t stop myself from drinking them in.”

“Shut your mouth, Potter,” Malfoy answered tersely, quietly. They were blocking the doorway now, the other students slipping in behind them with tense, but unsurprised, expressions.

Malfoy’d stopped, his shoulders straight and imposing where his back faced Harry. Zabini wore an expression torn somewhere between outrage and amusement. He raised a brow, all but goading him to continue.

Harry could feel himself getting sucked into the act, going too far, but he couldn’t stop the retort that slipped out naturally, like it was sixth-year all over again. “Or what, Malfoy? You’ll tell your father? Tell me, how _do_ you plan to speak to him all the way in Azkaban?”

Zabini’s flawless mask cracked, an ounce of genuine rage crackling in his jeweled eyes, suddenly wiping away the bemusement. Malfoy’s hands curled into tight fists, and if Harry looked closely enough, he could see Malfoy’s forearms trembling in the swimming fabric of his robes.

But just as quickly as it had arrived, the anger that lingered in Malfoy’s frame evaporated, replaced with a sort of undignified sagging. Harry let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding as Malfoy walked briskly to his seat without another word and pulled out his quills. His hands were still trembling.

“We asked for _bickering,_ Potter.” Zabini hissed, bumping his shoulder _hard_ and turning back to scowl at him. “ _Nothing below the belt,_ remember? Pull that shite again and you’ll find out exactly what we’re capable of hiding in your wardrobe while you’re _studying._ ”

With that, Zabini joined Malfoy at his table, sharing a meaningful look with Parkinson, whose entire demeanor made Harry feel like she’d just been told something particularly disappointing by her child’s nanny.

Ron gave him a reluctantly sympathetic look, clapping a hand over his shoulder as he sat down and rubbed his temples.

“Right, not what I said, but definitely what I _would_ have said, if you hadn’t qualified tepid. So.” Ron smiled gently, bumping his shoulder far more softly than Zabini had.

_Merlin._

This bloody fucking _sucked_.

⚡

After the casual disaster in Potions, Harry did what he always did when he was utterly lost.

He found Hermione that night.

She looked markedly less surprised than Ron had.

“I told you both,” she said quietly, venturing a glance up from her parchment to make sure they were alone in the common room. The rest of eighth years — Slytherins excluded — were busy in Hogsmeade, buying an entirely irresponsible amount of Firewhisky. She seemed to be restraining herself again. Her words were careful. Deliberate. “The Slytherins — Malfoy, especially — are remorseful, Harry. I think sometimes we talk like we were the only victims of the War.”

Hermione pressed her lips together, giving him a look with stern, watery eyes. “But they were children, too. All of them. Malfoy spent months in a house of literal horrors. They’re scared and alone.” She swept a lock of hair behind her ear. “Malfoy’s probably self-medicating with dreamless sleep, and refusing to eat from some misplaced sense of penance.”

Harry rubbed his eyes. “What do you think of this plan, then? To bicker with him?”

Hermione smiled a bit sadly. “It’s actually a bit brilliant, if you think about it. Malfoy would never accept your outright support or forgiveness, but he needs your validation, nonetheless.”

Harry tried to protest, but Hermione cut him off. “If you’re bickering with him, in some bizarre way, it’s validation that you’re not so thoroughly disgusted with him that you refuse to talk to him at all.”

She put a hand gently on his shoulder, and the warmth of it reminded him of their time in the forest, somehow. It all felt like eons ago, now. “And don’t try to act like he doesn’t want your validation, Harry. There’s a reason he’s circled you for seven years.”

Harry sighed, picking absently at the frayed edge of his sweater. It was the first one Mrs. Weasley had made him, actually. It was too tight now, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to get rid of it. It felt a bit like a hug, which was barmy, and he’d never admit it out loud, but he felt it all the same.

He bet Malfoy didn’t have anything like that.

And that was...a bit sad, wasn’t it?

“Do you think he’s in danger, ‘Mione?” He said it so quietly he wasn’t sure if he’d thought it or actually spoken out loud.

When she didn’t say anything, he went on. “I mean, I spent so long thinking he _was_ the danger, and I was right, I know I was, but...do you think that after all this, he’d...just give up?”

He thought he could see the barest slick of tears in Hermione’s wide brown eyes. “Oh, Harry,” she said softly.

“I don’t know.”

⚡

Right.

So he was doing this.

Harry easily spotted Malfoy's shock of platinum blonde hair sweeping down the hallway between classes the next day. He took a deep breath, pinning a glare between his shoulder blades.

Easy, Harry.

Something light. Barely insulting.

“Nice hair, Malfoy,” he said. “Though probably not worth skipping breakfast for.”

“What do you want, Potter,” Malfoy sighed, coming to rest just a couple paces away.

He wasn’t even pointy anymore, just gaunt. His jaw had been sharpened to a blade-like point, the smooth, Roman edge of his nose pointed down at the floor along with his grey eyes.

He barely looked alive.

Harry stiffened just a tad. “I need a reason to casually insult you now? That’s who we are, Malfoy. It’s what we do.”

“I’m too tired to insult you, Potter.” His eyes flicked up to Harry’s face. Dead. Like looking into the face of a corpse. He'd seen plenty to know what dead eyes looked like, and he was looking at them now. “Leave me alone.”

Harry pursed his lips, pushing away the growing anxiety in his gut. “Not too tired to fix your robes today, apparently.”

Then, suddenly — jarringly quickly, in fact — he grinned at the implication. It wasn’t even hard when he imagined Malfoy frantically straightening his robes this morning out of some misplaced concern that Harry would find them unsuitable. “Did I get to you yesterday?”

Malfoy flushed and scowled.

_Yes!_

“No, you most certainly did _not_ get to me, Potter. I always neaten my robes, because unlike some, I’m not some messy heathen who refuses to make use of a comb.”

Harry smirked. “I make perfect use of a comb, thank you. Though I suppose I’m not as close with mine as you are with yours.”

Without the pressing horror of Voldemort weighing down on all of their interactions, Harry could almost call their bickering…

Fun?

Ugh.

Malfoy spun on his heels, the quick “swish!” of his robes as he walked away nostalgic, somehow. “Do find it in yourself to stop staring at me, Potter. It’s unbecoming of the Saviour to lust after a standard he can never hope to attain.”

Harry waited for an outrage that never came.

All he could feel was relief. Were Malfoy’s shoulders straighter, or was it just him?

“Nicely done,” Parkinson whispered, suddenly brushing past him to catch up with Malfoy. She gave him a genuinely lascivious wink as she slipped by, and Harry felt his face color with something like mortification.

“Did Parkinson just wink at you?” Ron piped in, approaching from behind and jostling against him as they rounded the corner to Charms.

Harry’s nose wrinkled. “Yes? I think I just successfully managed a tepid insult. Malfoy seemed...relieved? She was pleased.”

Ron snorted and took the seat next to Harry.

“You lot are absolutely bloody nuts,” he said. But he offered him a smile anyway.

“Now, you’ve been doing loads of Charms with ‘Mione lately." Ron shoved a veritable disaster of a scroll at him, and — for the first time — Harry felt genuinely awful about all of his own messy scrolls, brightened under Hermione's careful scrutiny over the years.

"How do I do any of this?”


	4. Moonlight

It was 7:30am and Harry had been at breakfast for an hour, eyes pinned to Malfoy’s empty seat with something vaguely resembling concern, when Ron finally whirled into the Great Hall. He looked all the world like Molly had given away his pancakes for taking too long to come downstairs.

“Can someone please explain to me why Hermione is eating lunch with Pansy _bloody_ Parkinson?”

Ron scowled at the responding silence, falling gracelessly into his seat at the Gryffindor table and glaring harshly at the Slytherins...and Hermione. Absolutely no one, other than Harry, took even the slightest bit of interest in his strop.

If he were honest, his interest was mostly just compulsory, anyway.

Harry sniffed, patting absently at his nose. Had Hermione given him that bloody cold? Merlin, he forgot how much that sucked. He’d have to cast a couple more wellness charms before Arithmancy. “She said you were taking forever, and she was going to sit with a friend.”

“Since _when_ is Parkinson _a friend?_ Harry, tell me honestly...do you think we need to Owl Mungo’s? Has Hermione been poisoned?”

Harry peered up at him with a quirked brow. “Has she not told you?”

“Told me what?” Ron blushed to the tips of his pale ears. “To be honest, we haven’t really...talked…in a day or two, if you know what I mean.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. It was pink on the tip from his near-constant tissue use. “Uck. Anyway, Pansy was talking with me about the whole...Malfoy thing, the other day.” Harry waved a hand absently, going back to his breakfast. “When Hermione came up to ask a question about Potions. Well, not really ask...she actually came up to remind me about a tricky bit so I wouldn’t mess it up...doesn’t matter, really. Anyway. They ended up having a really long talk, and I think now that they’ve had words, they’re actually really getting along. No idea what they talked about, though.”

Ron groaned. “Merlin, she’s really going all in on this whole forgiveness thing, isn’t she?”

Harry swallowed a full bite of something he didn’t even remember chewing. Shite, he really was tired. “Hermione’s always been the most mature of our lot. It makes sense that she’d be the first one to reach out.”

“What does maturity have to do with it?” Ron poured himself a big glass of pumpkin juice, taking a long swig. “It’s not innately more _mature_ to forgive someone who literally _wanted to kill you._ It’s just mental.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder, spotting the pair just in time to watch Pansy let out a gut-busting punch of laughter that jolted Hermione a bit before she joined in, wiping her eyes.

Harry pressed his lips together. “I mean, I don’t think you’re wrong. But I’m sure Hermione knows they’re not going anywhere. Reaching out...forgiving them...it’s better than letting it divide everyone again, innit?” Harry paused, then sighed. “Or maybe it isn’t. I don’t know, Ron. I trust her judgement.”

Ron narrowed his eyes. “Well, I’m keeping an eye on ‘em. You and Malfoy, too.”

“A gentle breeze could knock Malfoy over,” Harry said, not even bothering to look back over at the Slytherin table. Malfoy wasn’t there. He never was. “I think I’m set, thanks.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Malfoy’s never been dangerous because he’s _brawny,_ mate.”

“That’s beside —”

“ _Harry._ ”

Harry jolted at the sharp whisper, whipping his head to the left and catching in his peripheral vision Neville’s bright grin. Harry paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. At this rate, he was never going to finish breakfast. An hour early or not. “Yeah, Nev?”

“Scooch closer.”

Harry quirked a brow but followed suit. He gestured for Ron to scooch towards them as well, and Neville leaned into the center of the table to better reach the both of them. The younger Gryffindors gave them a smattering of weird looks, but quickly went back to their conversation.

“Neville, why are we whispering furtively over scones and eggs?” Harry asked, in a manner he considered entirely sensible.

“Because what I’m about to tell you is _entirely unallowed..._ and roundly illegal.”

Well. Harry’s interest was certainly piqued. Ministry laws were something that Harry had long had a tenuous relationship with, at best. He got a bit of a thrill from breaking them just for shits now and again. “Go on.”

Neville slipped Harry a piece of parchment, unassuming and obviously charmed. He took a sip of juice rather innocently, careful not to make too much prolonged eye contact. “Several of the eighth years have felt that things are...tense, in the dormitory.”

Ron and Harry shared a look.

Well, neither of them were going to disagree with _that_.

“Hermione and I thought it may be useful to meet up, since there aren’t terribly many of us, and just...hash things out. Somewhere quiet and secluded, so that the inevitable shouting and hexing that will follow is out of the way of McGonagall and her penchant for detentions.” He turned and gave them a gentle smile. “Also, so we can use this, if we want.”

Neville deftly slipped a small vial of thick potion from his robe pocket, flashing it just long enough for it to be obvious what he was implying. Harry winced. “Neville, are you sure Hermione — “

Neville flushed. “Well, Hermione didn’t suggest this bit, but a few of us thought it might be helpful. No one would be pressured to use it, of course! But it’s a useful tool for folks who might...struggle with trust.”

“So the secondary location…”

“Yes, well. Mostly to keep prying eyes away from this, of course, but for those other bits, too! The, uh, information I gave you should tell you how to get there. There are already a handful of us planning to go tonight. The sooner the better, really.” Neville sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m getting a wee bit tired of walking on eggshells, myself.”

“Why are we just learning about this now?” Ron said sharply, throwing Hermione — who wasn’t paying a lick of attention — another glare.

Neville bowed his head and blushed further. “To be honest, we figured it might be the hardest to convince the two of you. After all, you kinda of - bore the brunt of it, Harry. And Ron, well, we love you, mate, but Hermione knows you’re still struggling with the forgiveness bit and warned us you may not be...amenable.”

Ron fumed silently beside him, but Harry turned the parchment about in his fingers. “Who else is going?”

Neville thought for a moment, chewing a bit of scone. “Hermione and I, of course. Hannah. Seamus, Susan and Dean. A couple of the Ravenclaws, I think — Boot and Goldstein? — and Parkinson, for sure. She said she’d ask Malfoy and Zabini, but they’re sort of the Slytherin equivalent of the two of you.” He coughed suddenly, avoiding Ron's glare “I said that poorly, but you know what I mean.”

“I’ll go,” Harry said, without giving his mouth explicit permission to do so. Ron made a soft noise beside him, then sighed.

“Right, okay. I’ll be there, too,” he managed. “Now can we please stop blubbering about forgiveness for one bloody second and eat?”

Harry looked at his long-forgotten plate of pastry and smiled. Neville gave them a happy nod before going back to his conversation with Hannah.

“I always did like you priorities, Ron,” Neville said, and Hannah flashed the both of them a grin.

⚡

Harry really, really hadn’t thought that Malfoy would show.

If the expression on his face, and Zabini’s fingers curled up in his charcoal jumper while he dragged Malfoy through the door, were any indication — Malfoy hadn’t thought he would, either.

“Sorry we’re late,” Zabini was saying, shoving Malfoy down on Neville’s left. Malfoy crumpled into his spot, cross-legged and seeming vaguely like he was considering casting several Unforgiveables at once.

Neville had apparently been far more convinced of their arrival, despite his hesitance at breakfast. Malfoy and Blaise’s messy entrance filled the final two cushions that had been transfigured from a random assemblage of old quills at the bottom of Neville’s bag.

“This one insisted on having a strop all the way down,” Blaise whinged, fixing his hair absently. Ron snorted.

Malfoy stayed silent, but his grey eyes met Parkinson’s across the circle, and she gave him an alarmingly cheery thumbs up. When Malfoy's scowl only deepened, Neville coughed into his hand, then gave a genuine, if nervous, smile at the rest of the group.

“Right. Hi, everyone! There’s not really, like, an established protocol yet, but Hermione and I thought we could start things off light and see where the evening takes us.”

Neville pulled a tiny jade owl from his robe pockets, passing it to Harry, who was immediately on his right. It felt heavy in his hands. Its huge, blank eyes looked up at him from his palms, reminding him — impossibly — of Hedwig as she’d fallen, twisting gracelessly, lifelessly, to the ground.

It was Neville who broke Harry from his thoughts. “When the owl gets to you, please — if you’re comfortable — tell us something you’ve enjoyed about being back at Hogwarts so far.”

“...I’m first?” Harry asked, a bit dumbly, still reeling, and Ron rolled his eyes, prodding Hermione with an elbow.

“Yes, Harry, if that’s alright,” Hermione said, much more gently, covertly smacking Ron on the arm.

“Right, um…” Harry cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses a bit. “If we want to be serious, I’ve really liked knowing what school, uh...should have been like?” He said it like a question. There was some uncomfortable shuffling from the rest of the room, but mostly supportive nodding from the likes of Hannah, Seamus and Susan.

Harry cracked an uncertain smile. “But I’m mostly in it for the treacle tart and hero worship, mind.”

There was a sharp, almost feral snap of laughter at that. Harry whipped his head to his immediate left, where Malfoy was holding his mouth, fingers splayed over it like the laugh had literally ripped out of him without permission.

Malfoy blinked rapidly, then shook his head and looked anywhere but Harry.

Harry paused, cleared his throat again, and passed the owl to Ron.

The owl traveled the circle, each person following Harry’s lead with one serious declaration, closely followed by something like “Peeves” or “the crushing looks of disappointment from Minerva McGonagall when I spill my pumpkin juice at breakfast” to break the tension.

Harry only really tuned back in when it got to its first Slytherin.

Pansy Parkinson worried her lip just slightly between her teeth, then said, making meaningful — if fairly brief — eye contact with Hermione. “Making amends.”

Harry’s breath caught.

Then her face fractured in two, deftly avoiding the cleft edge of the room's sharp silence with a practiced ease befitting her upbringing. “Also, seeing fit witches and wizards my age that _aren’t_ my relatives.”

“Cheers to that,” Susan muttered, and the entire room collectively let go of the breath they’d been holding long enough to laugh.

Then, too fast and too slow all at once, the owl reached Malfoy.

Harry didn’t exactly know why he wanted to know, so desperately, what Malfoy liked and didn’t like about being back here. He didn’t know why, but he _always_ cared what Malfoy thought.

And he couldn’t seem to stop doing it, even if he tried, so he felt himself lean forward just slightly and furrow his brow in anticipation.

The jade color of the owl matched Malfoy, in a weird way. Green always had. Always would. Malfoy was silent for a pressingly long moment, before he finally said, quick and raspy, like he might lose his nerve if the words took too long: “Feeling safe.”

Before the crushing blow of his words could really hit Harry, Malfoy was pinning him with a tentative, probing kind of look. It was quickly overtaken by something more Malfoy-ish, though. A ghost of a smirk touched his lips as he said: “Though, actually, I’m most excited to continue reminding Potter of what an utter dolt he is.”

And, well.

It was Harry’s turn to laugh, wasn’t it?

And if Malfoy’s eyes lit up just a fraction...

That was a happy accident that he’d gladly take credit for from Pansy.

⚡

Harry woke to the distinct, watery warble of crying that night.

It was terribly quiet, really. It would’ve been impossible to hear, especially over Ron’s seismic snoring, if it hadn’t been preceded by the sharp sound of breaking glass.

Years of war-sharpened instincts didn’t hurt, either.

Harry’d bolted from his bed, wrapped in his fluffy Gryffindor robe, a ghost in crimson, by the time he remembered that he could’ve used his invisibility cloak. But there wasn’t time to second guess himself — whatever or whoever it was could be actively in distress — and the plush carpet between his toes gave way to the cold wood of the hallway as Harry padded out of his room. He silently peered down the staircase into the common room, searching for the source of the noise.

Draco Malfoy, surrounded by ceramic pieces of teacup, had collapsed onto the floor, sobbing violently — nearly soundlessly — into his slender hands. His entire back was rigid, shaking, and swathed only in a thin white material that seemed too sheer for the fall chill of the fireless dormitory.

He was barely visible in the pale moonlight, and was easiest to see where the blue light slinking in the windows met luminous strands silken, white-blond hair. They'd clumped together at the nape of his neck and in front of his eyes, covering tear-streaked cheeks.

It was mercy that sent Harry back to bed, cradling the pieces of Malfoy’s shattered pride in his hands like a tiny jade owl, never making a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pushes character puppets together* S U F F E R


	5. Leaf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT WARNING: This chapter contains a character who is suspected of suicidal ideation. It is an integral part of the chapter and carries through. Please do not read this is if it may trigger you.

Harry hadn’t meant to become obsessed with Malfoy.

Again.

But what was a lad to do after discovering their arch-nemesis crying like a bloody soap character in their common room, surrounded by shattered glass and bathed in that poetic fucking moonlight like some fairytale prince?

Ask them how they _are?_

Absurd.

So here he was, once again, stalking about the corridors with his map and cloak, trying desperately hard not to walk in the bumbling, loud way that he’d become so easily accustomed to following the war. The uncovered, echoing stones under his feet made it hard. As did his constant efforts not to let his drowsiness weigh down his limbs into leaden, dead weight. He was managing admirably, nonetheless, if you asked him.

It had been three nights since Harry’d discovered Malfoy in the dormitory, and now the prat was off galavanting somewhere in the castle, and Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that he shouldn't  — couldn’t — be alone.

And oh, Malfoy’d been careful about it, too. Cunning in that Slytherin way, watching the goings on with an air of disinterest and a polite cross of his ankles. Harry had seen it — the way he’d kept an eye on Pansy and Blaise all evening, watching with a dead-eyed expression as Pansy played a lazy game of wizarding chess with Hermione and Blaise whinged at anyone who would listen about the marks on his latest Potions assignment.

He’d watched as Malfoy marked their departure, as he’d clearly and cautiously counted down the moments until they were unlikely to return to the common area, as he’d not said a word and whisked out the door, unaccosted and unnoticed by the likes of Neville, Susan, and Hannah, who were all gabbing about some bit or another on the plush couch by the fire.

Harry had watched, and he’d bit his lip, and he’d grabbed his things to follow Malfoy without a word to anyone.

Where Malfoy was going he hadn’t the foggiest, but they were getting suspiciously close to the Great Hall before they suddenly went up, up, up. Harry couldn’t deny their destination anymore.

The Astronomy Tower.

The first-years weren’t in the tower tonight, the clouds and mist obscuring the possibility of star and planet-gazing. Harry felt his stomach drop like a stone.

Why would Malfoy be going to the Astronomy Tower?

Harry followed a restrained twenty steps behind, but he felt his pace quicken, closing the distance between him and Malfoy in case...well. In case what, exactly? Malfoy was too selfish to off himself, right? Surely, he wasn’t...

Malfoy finally breached the top of the staircase, pausing briefly to sigh before he approached the edge of the tower. He waited. And waited. Staring blankly at the stars. Harry slunk to the outer wall, felt his muscles coil, his hand gripping his wand, ready to cast a _Wingardium Leviosa_ , to…  
  
But then Malfoy bent down, digging through a bag Harry had failed to notice blending into his rich, dark robes. He laid out a small, white votive candle, lighting it with a quick flick of his wand. Malfoy muttered the spell so softly that even Harry, close enough that he could practically hear Malfoy breathing, couldn’t catch its syllables.

Malfoy sat on his knees, a surprisingly abased position for someone who wouldn’t use the wrong _dessert_ _fork_ their third-year, and was silent for a number of seconds.

Harry didn’t dare to breathe.

“This is bollocks, I think,” he heard Malfoy murmur. “But mum said it used to help her “feel clean” when _he_ was around — whatever that fucking means, so…”

Harry could see the yellow light on Malfoy’s eyelashes, the ends of which were brushing a cheek that seemed shinier than it had been a moment ago. The dark, all-consuming in the shadow of the new moon and dense cloud cover, swallowed him almost entirely. Entirely, that was, except for the faint flicker of the candle on his face, weak but insistent.

“I’m, uh, I’m — “ a hitched breath. Malfoy shook his head, rubbed his eyes. “Gods, I’m sorry, okay?”

_Sorry?_

“I don’t know if any of that spiritual shite is true or not, but Severus, Vince — anyone, all of you — I…” A whine ripped from Malfoy’s throat, and he frantically rubbed at his face again, then cupped his hands around the flame so his quick breathing wouldn’t blow it out. “I should’ve been better, should’ve stood up and _stopped it,_ but I was so scared, I was such a coward, I —”

_What was…_

“And I know that’s not an excuse, Merlin, do I know. Especially with Katie, and Rosmerta...” A fierce look touched his face then, feral and disgusted. “Potter never let that stop him. Weasley, Granger, Longbottom — they all sat there and watched their families _die_ while I was paralyzed like a bloody infant in my _Manor._  And Severus, you too — you — “

His fierce expression dissolved and a sob broke the fragile silence of the tower. “Severus, you protected someone you  _hated_ while I dithered and cried, moaned to you about useless  _shite,_ and I’m just so _bloody sorry._ I’m alive, and I’m _here_ again, and I don’t know how to make it right. I don’t think I can. I don't think I deserve to.”

Malfoy patted his nose with his sleeve. “I, uh — I’ve been bringing tea up here. And I know it’s ridiculous, but sometimes I carry two cups, so I can pretend I’m meeting you here during the walk up.”

A drop slipped unnoticed down Malfoy’s patrician nose, landing on bulge in his robes where his right knee was. “You fucking hated tea but you always drank the stuff mother sent me, so I brought some. I figured I’d leave a cup, just under the staircase, but the blasted elves found it last time and brought it back to the kitchens. I tried to bring it back last night, I…”

Malfoy rustled around in his robe pockets a bit, pulling out a satin pouch, filled with an assortment of fragrant leaves. “Here's some, anyway? This is bloody stupid, I don’t know why I did this. Merlin help me, a dead man can’t _smell my tea…_ ”

Malfoy cleared his throat, sprinkling the tea about the bottom of the candle anyway, the warm scent of cinnamon filling the air a bit like a mother’s hug. _Narcissa Malfoy had sent this?_ “Anyway, I guess I should, uh, get back. Before one of those nosy Gryffindors thinks I’m up to something.”

Malfoy pushed the leaves about, quiet and contemplative. He took a shaky breath, seeming steely, suddenly.

“And if you can hear me, even though I never could say it, I...I loved you.” A watery laugh. “Merlin, you’d kill me for being such a _girl_ about it, but I did. More than my own father, I think. Rest easy, Severus.”

And as Malfoy extinguished the candle with his fingers, leaving it smoking in the dark, Harry sidled up against the far wall, watching the faint outline Malfoy’s robes disappear down the staircase.

And Harry.

Harry felt.

For _Draco_ sodding _Malfoy._

And wasn’t that just a fucking rich twist.

⚡

Harry didn’t know who to talk to about this...thing, with Malfoy.

It wasn’t like he could talk to Ron, who’d go off on some bizarrely convincing, convoluted conspiracy about how Malfoy _knew_ Harry was there and put on a show. And it wasn’t like Harry could explain that, in his _gut,_ his gut that had defeated Voldemort, he knew Malfoy meant every word.

He also knew the moment he told Hermione she go all...Hermione, on him. He'd hate the insufferable way her face would light with pity and suppressed smugness. That wouldn’t work either.

They meant well, but Harry knew they wouldn’t understand.

Which is how he ended up knocking on Blaise Zabini’s door late the next evening, peering behind him to make sure no one had seen him...debase himself like this.

Blaise cracked the door, looking rumpled for maybe the first time in his entire life, and blinked owlishly a couple times before he cracked a slow grin.

“Potter,” he purred, leaning up against his doorframe. “What brings you?”

“Are you alone?” Harry asked brusquely, and if a smile could be lecherous, Blaise’s was exactly that.

“Why yes, I am. Pansy and Draco are having tea and biscuits,” Blaise answered, voice low. His eyes were hooded. “I can’t possibly imagine why you’d —”

Harry pushed through into his room, rolling his eyes. “I’m not here for whatever dirty shite you’re conjuring, Zabini. I wanted to talk about Malfoy.”

Blaise sighed and seemed to shrink inward a little. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You always do.”

“What?” Harry snapped.

Blaise scoffed. “Nothing, Potter. What is it about Draco?”

Harry sat on the armchair beside Malfoy’s bed. He was trying incredibly hard not to note anything about it — the silver bedspread, the luxurious pillows, the pine and cinnamon scent that he now knew was, in part, Narcissa Malfoy’s motherly tea. “I don’t think he’s doing well.”

Blaise snorted. “No shite, Potter, that’s what Pansy and I were telling you, you dense twat.”

Harry waved a hand. “No, more than you thought.” He handed Blaise a leaf from the tea that Malfoy had sprinkled in the tower. “Recognize this?”

Blaise’s brows shot up. “Where did you get this?”

Harry fiddled with the threads on his pyjama pants, then forced himself to meet Blaise’s eyes. “I followed Malfoy last night, after you and Pansy took off.”

“He was _fine,_ we watched —”

“Evidently not!” Harry barked. Blaise flinched back, seeming...nervous? “I followed him with my cloak. You know where he’s been all these nights? He goes up to the Astronomy Tower and flirts with the edge of it, like offing himself is some _romantic_ solution to being cowardly during the war.”

“Potter....”

“Then, when he’s decided killing himself isn’t quite what he’s interested in tonight, he dissolves into a quivering puddle and cries for the people who died. Cold and alone. He left all this tea for Snape.” Harry furrowed his brows and strode towards Blaise to empty the rest of the tea onto his bed.

He abruptly realized exactly how large he was, now. No longer malnourished and helpless. Blaise seemed lanky and short beside him, still keeping a safe distance from Harry's anger. He'd tried to look down into his eyes, but Blaise diverted his gaze and turned around. It all seemed normal for him. Practiced.

Merlin, they were used to this, weren't they? Some powerful wizard snapping at them while they curled in on themselves and waited it out with gritted teeth and white knuckles. 

“He brings it all the way up with cups so he can pretend Snape’s still alive.” Harry whispered, softer than before, trying desperately to quiet the guilt building inside. He abruptly remembered the shattered glass on the floor of the common room and realized it had been Snape's cup.

Blaise was silent. Harry was momentarily grateful that he couldn’t see his face. He couldn’t handle seeing another person he thought was empty inside fracture and break right in front of his eyes. “You think he wants to die?” He finally said, softly. His shoulders were sagging.

Harry let out the breath he'd been holding thought for a moment. “Blaise, if he wasn’t the coward he thinks he is, he’d already be dead.”

“Get out.” Blaise said, then. It was so sudden, so sharp, that it hit Harry a bit like a jinx to the face.

“What? Are you —”

Blaise turned back, and his eyes were bright with fire and unshed tears now. It was infinitely better than the quiet fear, at least. “Potter, if you’re in here when he gets back, it’s going to send him over the edge. I’ll put a tracking charm on him tonight and talk to Pomfrey. If you’re serious, then this isn’t a game anymore. No more toying with him.”

The room sat for a moment. Silent and heavy. Charged with magic and fear. Then Harry could feel his mouth moving without his permission.

“What if we...changed the objective?”

Harry doesn’t even know what he’s saying until he’s said it. But it was out, now, and there was no taking it back. Blaise looked back at him like he’d grown another head, and honestly, Harry’s convinced he just might have.

Somehow, though, Harry was still talking. “Listen, I still — Merlin, I still fucking _hate_ Malfoy, but I don’t want him to die, or I wouldn’t have saved him during the Battle, would I?”

Blaise scrunched his nose, then looked faintly wounded. “You saved him? He never said —”

Harry pinched his temples. “Of fucking _course_ he didn’t, Blaise. That’s not...that’s not the point.” Harry fiddled with the Marauder’s Map in his pocket, gnawing his lip. “What if I...what if we forgive him? Eventually.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Potter, you just said you still hate him.”

Harry could feel himself getting irritated. He took a couple of slow, calming breaths — the way Hermione showed him. “No _shite, Zabini,_ I literally just said that, I didn’t forget. But not liking someone, hating someone...that’s not the same thing as forgiveness. Hermione’s already pulling that off just fine with Parkinson.”

He curled his fingers around the parchment of the map. “Tell Pomfrey about it. Keep a closer eye on him. Intervene if it’s an emergency. Block off the entrance to the Tower — but keep dragging him to those meetings. I’ll...I’ll make clear that he can _earn_ forgiveness. My forgiveness. Our forgiveness. In time.”

Blaise hummed thoughtfully, which Harry figured is as close as he can get to an agreement, and as he exited the way he came, he looked back one final time.

“And if all else fails —” he flicked a glittering galleon at Blaise, who caught it easily.

“Call me.”


End file.
